Was Norman Macleod a poet? Pre-eminently so, said Principal Shairp, relying on Wordsworth’s paradox. But that is a broken reed. Expression is the final cause of poetry, the form’s the thing. Now, from Macleod’s habit of misquoting the finest lines it would seem that his love for poetry was not a poet’s love. Still in his verse he could stumble on such rhythm as this—
‘Ah, where is he now, in what mansion,
In what star of the infinite sky?’
and in the conclusion of a piece about a grey-headed father seeing his children dance, there is a gleam of real poetry—
‘But he hears a far-off music
Guiding all the stately spheres,
In his father-heart it echoes,
So he claps his hands and cheers.’
The hymn ‘Courage, brothers,’ has a telling ring, though only of rhetoric; and in a song that had the honour of a place in Maga he has roughly rendered the spirit and atmosphere of the roaring game. But his cleverest achievement in rhyme is ‘Captain Frazer’s Nose,’ which we are told was written during violent pain.
Oh, if ye’re at Dumbarton fair,
Gang to the castle when ye’re there,
And see a sicht baith rich and rare—
The nose o’ Captain Frazer.
Unless ye’re blin’ or unco glee’t,
A mile awa’ ye’re sure to see’t,
And nearer han’ a man gauns wi’t